


it comes through the pipes

by pensee



Series: a host of insidious things [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bath Sex, Drunk Sex, Eager Will, Frightened Will, I am talking ear canals people, M/M, Object Penetration, Other, Sleepy Sex, Smoke ectoplasm tentacle monster Hannibal, Sounding, creature birth, even the smallest ones, hints of somnophilia, penetration in every hole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 02:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20575004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee
Summary: Drip drip drip. The sound alone has Will’s cock hardening in his shorts. Normally, he’d hire a plumber to come take a look at it—he’d already looked at the spigot and checked for any leaks in the fixture twice—but he didn’t want to take the chance that he’d lose his favorite bath buddy if he called someone from outside to check up on it.Or: Will has some Fun Times with tentacle-shadow-creature Hannibal in the tub.





	it comes through the pipes

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to keep it simple with some smutty drabbles this week. Bear with me, please.
> 
> In my opinion this isn’t very graphic despite the tags but I usually have a high squick capacity so tagging and E rating just in case.

Drip drip drip.

The sound alone has Will’s cock hardening in his shorts. Something about unconditioned stimuli and conditioned responses slips through his mind, like the scales of a flying fish winking in the sunlight before disappearing beneath the dark surface of the water.

Normally, if he had something wrong in the bathroom or under the sink, he’d hire a plumber to come take a look at it if things were really hairy—he’d already looked at the spigot in the bath and checked for any leaks in the fixture twice—but he didn’t want to take a chance that he’d lose his favorite bath buddy if he called someone from outside to check up on it. Anything or anyone that hung out with him for an extended period of time probably had issues with most other people, was his way of thinking.

It’d only been a few weeks, but he’d already made a routine of it.

The first time, he’d been so drunk he’d woken up from a stupor with two empty glasses and a quarter bottle of bourbon overturned on the bathroom floor, thinking he was drowning because there was water in his mouth and an intense heaviness in his chest, only to find himself face to face with the slits of glowing red eyes and a mouthful of sharp, smiling teeth.

Something curled around his ankle, stroking him almost like he’d pet one of his dogs, and it still chills him to the bone that instead of gnashing his teeth and fighting or running for the hills like he should have, he merely shifted his grip on the edges of the murky porcelain tub and rasped, “Please, get off my chest. P-please.”

The eyes had narrowed even further, and a hot puff of breath on Will’s face confirmed that he was, in fact, dealing with a living, breathing Thing, and not just the stuff of another too-vivid nightmare, sitting alone in semi-frigid water in the dark with only the moonlight and a horde of sleeping dogs in the other room for company.

“Please,” the monster had said, as if unable to grasp the concept, a tendril of something—a tentacle, a shadow, or both—reaching out to glide over the smooth, wet surface of Will’s collarbone, now slick with new fear sweat. 

“C-Can’t, I can’t breathe,” Will had said, the shadow echoing him once more, and at once, the pressure on Will’s chest dissipated as if it was never there.

Stumbling over himself in a race to get to the light switch, Will had accidentally kicked a glass across the room, shattering it against the far wall. Stepping to mind the broken shards scattered in the gloom, his panicked breathing had not slowed when he flicked on the light and found nothing amiss in the bathroom, except for the fruits of his own frenzied clumsiness, a taste not unlike black licorice lingering on the back of his tongue.

His first experience with Hannibal had been mild, he thought now. Nothing like what he was expecting today.

There was a little comfort in convincing himself it was just another drunken concoction, the product of looking too hard and too closely at murder and nastiness for years on end. Maybe it was a cure for an ailing mind, to think up things in the dark that couldn’t exist, leaving no trace behind, though every one of their nights together made the hollow core inside of him deeper and deeper, till he felt as if he was trying to fill a void that had grown into a bottomless well.

Throwing back two fingers at once, he reminds himself to leave his glass and his bottles outside of the bath. (The last time he had left them there, another cup had broken, and the fatter end of a convenience store vodka shot had been curiously wiggled into his ass, as if Hannibal had been merely testing his environment, rather than finding the quickest and most humiliating way for Will to come all over himself without even touching his cock as his hole closed up around the entire bottle.)

Not much else to do but wait, he goes over a mental layout of his house and closes his eyes. Doors all locked, lights all off, and the dogs all sleeping or mostly there, the constant drip-drip-drip of the warm water spigot the only thing occupying his thoughts until a heavy, slick appendage curls itself around his neck, draped like a scarf.

Smiling, wider then, when the tentacle slips into his mouth and kisses the back of his throat, Will groans deep in his chest as a flicker of movement brushes against his right arm, where the spigot is. Eyes widening now, he watches in the moonlight from the window—tonight it’s waning, but the moon has been full recently, no longer blocked by clouds—as a great inky darkness spreads over the white rim of the tub and encases him, prying his legs apart, creeping into his nose, the jet-black limb skating over his torso and dipping into his navel winding its fat tip around the base of his cock.

Hannibal’s face emerges last, his teeth so severely sharp that Will feels the warm spill of blood on his shoulder before he even registers any pain, Hannibal hissing out a collection of sounds that Will knows are intended to form his name.

Like all boneless creatures, Hannibal can squeeze into many places that upon first glance appear far too small for his fathomless body to squeeze through, but not for the first time, Will wonders why he comes to visit at times like these. He would be lying if he said he didn’t feel Hannibal in the sunlight, sometimes, a flicker out of the corner of his eye, a heaviness in his gut at the first sign of dawn, before the shadows have all slithered and retreated back to their designated corners of the living room.

Maybe Hannibal didn’t like the light, per se, but maybe it served another purpose. Even the simplest cells could use light to find food.

Did Hannibal want to eat him? he thought to himself, with an aroused whimper that shouldn’t have inflamed his need to be held tighter, more, swallowed and subsumed by the shadows till there was nothing left. Feeling tiny wisps of shadow caressing the corners of his eyes, he blinks tears away as they slowly worm their way into his skull, gagging a bit on the swollen, tongue-like limb forcing its way down his throat, and choking off into a reedy scream as the part playing with his cock uses the already abundant slick there to glide almost seamlessly into his eagerly dilating slit.

His vocal chords vibrate around the syllables of Hannibal’s name, and Hannibal, tactile animal he was, could probably discern exactly what Will was saying, but he merely let out another low rumble that Will had only heard before on _special _nights, nights that left him so wrung out in the morning he always contemplated calling in sick to work before inevitably rising again and cleaning himself of spunk because what was his supervisor going to believe, _that a possibly-imaginary shadow octopus had fucked his brains right out of his head?_

_Let me in_, he thinks, after far too long realizing that these aren’t his own words coming to mind, Hannibal speaking in that odd collection of almost-English sounds right next to each of his ears, inside of their shells now, a million little whispers following each other across the confines of his chaotically ordered rows of forts.

Worse than chaos now, he chuckles to himself, finds himself repeating the words to himself, _Let me in, let me in_, and comes upon a small revelation as he does.

He can’t exactly speak properly right now, stuffed to the brim, another thing of indeterminate length and width—though it was wide, God, yes, was it wide—pressing insistently at his ass, but maybe Hannibal would hear him anyway.

“Are you cold?” he mumbles, the garbled syllables barely leaving his throat as if he’s fighting for each one, competing with the mass of writhing blackness attempting to plug his airway.

Hannibal’s teeth scratch another line into his opposite shoulder. Warm blood flows again.

He could easily hurt Will much worse, but he won’t. Maybe he knows the fact that Will stays hot to the touch, more importantly, hot inside, is intimately tied to whether he is alive.

Corporeal and not all at once, Hannibal presses against him in his entirety, every inch of him a dense web that practically pins Will to the tub like a butterfly to a corkboard, before he fades around Will like smoke. The heaviness returns suddenly, Will digging nails into his still-spread legs as he feels the brush of tendrils along his inner thighs.

In, in, in, like he’s a bottle to be stopped up at the end of it, the rest of his guts jam uncomfortably up into his stomach, so cramped he knows he’s about to burst. Scrabbling at the tub, he knocks over shampoo and tiny, scummy old bars of soap, his dick traitorously leaking onto his belly, empty throat seizing up around a desperate _please_.

_Please_, Hannibal repeats, like their first night again. Curious. Amused. Incredibly sentient for something Will knows now is not just something concocted from fantasy and horror, but a terrible entity all his own.

Still bleeding, Will tenses, stiff as a board, as he registers the sensation of something lapping at the scratches Hannibal has left on him, and hears a small, sharp click from nearby.

_Push now_, comes Hannibal’s voice, and Will yelps, “F-fuck,” as his insides shift.

Something breaches his hole, something different than Hannibal, not at all focused on exploration but merely wriggling its way out as soon as possible, uncaring of the harm it does to his body in the meantime. Small claws or teeth leave his already sensitive insides scraped raw as it emerges, a high, screeching wine the only noise it makes before falling abruptly silent, flopping wetly onto the tub wall as Will whimpers, curling over on himself both to get away from it and to not give himself the option to run, standing his ground in the least literal way possible.

His analytical brain knows exactly what’s just happened, but not how or why. The rest of him is just trying to catch up.

The moon’s glow is enough to read the analog clock over the mirror, and he lets out a relieved sigh as he cranes his neck up to check and then lets it fall back onto the cool tub wall. Four more hours till sunrise; that’s time enough to demand an explanation, he thinks, at least after his exhausted body gets a few minutes of shut-eye…

He wakes up to loud, eager barking and a wet nose in his face.

As is typical, Hannibal is gone, along with all traces of where he’d been and what he’d done to Will, save the ache deep inside of him and the cuts and bruises that make little red or purple lines across his skin.

As is not typical, one thing remains of last night, an undulating black mass of what looks like octopus tentacles writhing over Will’s forearm, little tendrils curling around his index finger like—_don’t make the comparison, Graham, don’t you dare_—. Like a child instinctively grasping at a parent’s proffered hand.

“What the fuck,” Will says tiredly, and sinks right back down into the tub.

**Author's Note:**

> Did Will just give birth to a little baby tentacle/ectoplasm monster? Mebbe. <strike> Mebbe the little monster’s name is Ezekiel. Say hi Zeke. <strike></strike></strike>


End file.
